Tobacco Stain

Under her bed, she peeked around at the room and her plan: open window, cloth hanging from the ledge with items hidden or knocked over as if they had been packed away in a hurry. Jerking at every noise, she covered her mouth, reminding herself that this was an old house and not every sound signalled a meaty hand, fingers blackened over time, stained with tobacco. However, the next creak cautioned exactly that, with unsteady footsteps stumbling up the stairs.

She could hear the anticipation in those steps, looking for fun before collapsing in the hallway under the guise of having had a hard day instead of rounds at the pub.

The door slammed open to a confused silence, stunned, enraged and then amused.

A warm puddle spread under her, a sour stench of resignation, joints locking as she wondered whether she had enough time to kill herself. Wood cut into crying fingers, the floorboards coming up under nails gripping onto the damp, dead tree and desperate against the two shackles staining her ankles black.

Her splintered back was dragged into a foreign calmness and everything stopped. No struggling, only a distant sensation of peace. The kind of peace felt whilst sinking into the open ocean because there is no time limit to save yourself by. No rush or a frantic final burst of energy to survive, simply wonder as you peer into a blue so dark that it can only be compared to a galactic black.